


fleeting hands leave the darkest marks

by scriptmanip



Series: Resting on Your Laurels [5]
Category: Skins (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/scriptmanip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve practically forgotten that it’s not a Bristol autumn, that you’re not seventeen having fucked off Maths to hide out in your bedroom, naked and laughing and getting tangled in your bed sheets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fleeting hands leave the darkest marks

  
_Well, I met you right, but I kept you wrong_  
_And I must wait until I’ve found the ground that you’re walking on_

* * *

_  
_

It’s Saturday. You know it’s Saturday because, even before you’ve opened your eyes, the day just has a very Saturday feel to it. So you can’t quite figure why the fuck an alarm is going. But then, dragged reluctantly from sleep, you register it’s not an alarm but a mobile. Not yours even, but—

 _Emily_.

You feel the shift in the mattress before you’ve dared move – what you imagine to be Emily reaching for her phone – and then it goes silent again. One deep breath, and you turn towards the centre of the bed to face her.

“Hi.” Her voice, croaking and groggy, is even more lovely than you remember. And then it’s not just any Saturday but the best one you’ve had in years.

“Morning,” you smile.

“Sorry if that woke you. It was Katie.”

“It’s okay. You need to ring her back then?”

Emily’s eyes are sleepy. Her hair sort of unkempt. Her breasts sort of _exposed_.

“Yeah, I should, actually,” she says, flushing a bit and pulling at the sheets when she’s noticed your eyes drifting.

“Got a pretty good look at them last night, you know,” you smirk, squinting one eye and cocking your head towards her now covered chest.

She flushes darker shades of red, fighting a smile. “Yeah well, still feels a bit _odd_ , don’t you think?”

“You’re in my bed, Emily. Without clothing. I’m not sure ‘ _odd_ ’ even begins to cover it.”

Emily nervously tucks unruly strands of hair behind her ear. You watch her eyes until they fall to the mattress, her head bashfully bowed.

“I still can’t believe you’re even in New York. Let alone _here_ , like this.”

“In your bed,” Emily says, looking up with a hard swallow. “Without clothing.”

It’s your turn to feel heat crawling up your neck and face, though another, more pleasant warmth spreads between your legs, and so you shift carefully beneath the sheets to distract from it. Struggling somewhat to say, “Exactly.”

“So, what, um – what now?”

“Well,” you take a breath, exhaling through your nose, “you should ring Katie, and I will quite literally cease to function if I don’t have coffee within the next thirty minutes.” Emily smiles at that, and you think that possibly, it’s the best she’s ever looked. “So, take your time in here, yeah? I’ll just get the kettle on.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

You’re about to slip out of bed when you pause, propped up on an elbow and narrow your eyes at her. “If we’re playing fair, no perving while I locate my clothes. Got it?”

Emily’s smile brightens even as she tries to kerb it, pressing her lips together. “Yeah, of course. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You can’t remember the last time you felt this awkward in your own, fucking bedroom, but your limbs are uncomfortably shaky as you hastily reach down to the floor for your clothes.

“You’re looking,” you say while stepping into your discarded pyjamas, your back to the bed. When you turn to face her, your vest top and pants now pulled back on, Emily has sat up a bit, leant against your pillows with a cheeky smirk.

“Sorry,” she says without an ounce of real sentiment.

So you just shake your head without trying to lessen your own smile. “Liar.”

**

Halfway through your first cup of coffee and two paragraphs into an article your friend Walter wrote for _Esquire_ , Emily appears in the doorway and lingers there. Like even after twelve hours – several of which were spent in the same bed – she’s not yet figured out how to relax within the space of your flat.

You’ve been repeating, in your head, the same question in a hundred different sequences, none of which seem to sound quite right. None of which really feel like the right approach to figuring out why, unsolicited, Emily sent you some terribly lovely piece of writing; or, why she then crossed an ocean to see you without warning; or, why, perhaps most dauntingly, the pair of you thought it wise to shag, on a whim, like a couple of horny teenagers.

Of course your pre-mediated speeches have always landed so famously once you’re looking straight at her, so you just end up asking, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Yeah, everyone’s good – Lewis has been _‘angelic,’_ or so says his aunt, who’s opinion of him is of course only mildly biased.”

“Of course,” you smile, and glance back at the magazine in your lap before tossing it onto the sofa cushion next to you and setting your mug onto the coffee table. “Coffee?”

“I’d love some,” she says, and then continues to stand rigidly near the doorway, even after you’ve closed the five or so paces between Emily and your sofa. You’re about to move past her and into the kitchen when the sound of her voice startles you to a halt. “Can I just say – thanks?”

“Thanks?” you echo, now lingering just as awkwardly in the narrow corridor. “For what?”

“Yeah, it’s just,” Emily pulls both hands behind her back and leans against them, along the doorframe. “I wasn’t really sure what to expect, you know – coming here totally, fucking uninvited and without warning – but you’ve been, I mean, it’s been really, um, nice.”

Her nerves are actually palpable, the way she keeps fumbling over her words, and can’t seem to look at you for more than a split second at a time. It’s so ridiculously attractive, you have to physically stop yourself from doing anything embarrassingly eager – like throwing her over your shoulder and hauling her back to bed.

You’re not sure it’s any less eager, but leaning forward to kiss her seems like something Emily should at least be expecting, given that she’s essentially just thanked you for sleeping with her instead of throwing her out into the December cold. But then it seems to be okay, overly eager or not, when she’s smiling as your lips touch.

When you pull back a long breath later, and tell her, “You’re welcome,” Emily still looks a bit dazed but exceedingly less anxious.

In the kitchen, you pull a mug off a high shelf and fill it with still-steaming coffee from the French press – a gesture that’s less about chivalry and more about Emily being so petite she’d never be able to reach the cups anyway.

She takes it between two hands and smiles a _‘thanks’_ before asking, “Got any milk?”

“I don’t do much dairy, actually, but there’s almond milk in the fridge if you like.”

Her brows do a funny kind of contortion, and she’s eyeing you with this amused expression when she reaches around and pulls open the fridge door.

“What – you’ve gone vegan or something?”

“No! ‘Course not – I just – it’s good alright?”

Emily doesn’t respond directly, just starts reading aloud the labels on your food – not at all interested in the carton of almond milk, apparently, which is in plain, fucking sight on the top shelf. And the intrusion has an uncomfortably voyeuristic feel to it, even though you’re storing incredibly ordinary things like organic tomato juice and vegetarian meatballs.

“Taking stock of my fridge now, are you?” you ask, trying to lessen the discomfort in your voice.

“Well, you drink _almond milk_ now,” she laughs. “Just trying to see what else you’ve been up to in the last decade.”

“And you’re going to deduce that by way of my food and beverage consumption?”

Emily, still laughing with her back to you, says, “Yeah.”

Your arms stiffly crossed along your stomach, you rest your hip against the countertop. “You could always just _ask_ me, you know.”

So Emily stands upright again, where she’s been hunched into the fridge, and turns to face you with her arms crossed and a challenging arc shaping her brow. “Alright then. What have you been up to for the past ten years?”

There’s no time to question its validity, your answer, because the words are leaving your lips that quickly. In a rush of breath, you simply tell her, “Waiting for this.”

Any amusement once playing across her face vanishes, and Emily just stands there, in the cramped space of your kitchen, and looks at you for what feels like a very long time.

Your ears are still ringing, and your breathing feels heavy as you stand across from her. But then she’s pushing against you sort of forcefully – her hands to your hips – until the small of your back lands against the sink’s edge. And it’s not as if you’ve any time to prepare for that kind of impact so you let slip a surprised squeak before her mouth makes contact with yours. If Emily had been urgent last night, she’s well, fucking _greedy_ this morning, because her hands move without hesitancy to slip beneath both layers you’re wearing until she’s fanned one hand across your stomach and moved the other to palm your tit.

It feels good in a way you’re not expecting and your body just reacts on instinct, moaning into her mouth and pushing back into her, your hands sliding through the soft curls of her hair. Emily hooks two fingers into the elastic of your pyjama bottoms and tugs until she’s got you stumbling forward from the exertion, clumsily leading you both into the corridor. For the second time in so many hours, Emily then wrestles with your tops, discarding them along the floor as you haphazardly guide her backwards into the sitting room. She stumbles only slightly when her heel kicks against a leg of the coffee table, and you’d maybe been able to keep her from the offending object had she not moved a hand into your pyjama bottoms and between your legs, cupping your now damp underwear.

In another step, she spins so that you’re back against the sofa cushions. Not until she’s made eye contact does she remove her tee shirt, and you just watch her standing above you. You hold her eye while she moves to straddle your waist, one leg and then the other, and take in gulps of air while you’re able. Because no sooner has she tossed the top to the floor, she’s then hovering over your chest, sucking one nipple until it’s so taut it almost hurts.

Her hand again moves towards your knickers, just as you exhale a rather desperate _‘Jesus Christ,’_ this time beneath the fabric. And any attempt to slow things down, or to stop Emily’s momentum, or to question the absolute recklessness of your actions, fails miserably around the time her fingers start circling your clit.

You’ve almost always been shit at stopping her from doing anything. Particularly a thing of which she’s so, fucking adept – like making you feel as if your skin is aflame, as if all your hairs are standing on end.

Even though there’s a definite conversation you’re meant to be having. Even though its outcome could very well determine your future, with or without her.

Instead, the conversation you’re having turns a bit raunchy. Because Emily is whispering things like _‘does that feel good?’_ And your responses are laden with urgent profanity. And so you stop giving a shit about cause-and-effect, or responsibility, or consequence, concentrating solely on removing your pants as quickly as possible because Emily’s just begged something along the lines of, _‘I need to have you in my mouth.’_

Her head dips down without much pretence, and you cry out inelegantly when her mouth is on you, when her tongue applies a pressure that feels like torture and relief. She licks with purpose, with a practiced rhythm you’ve forgotten, and your legs open wider out of instinct. Your fingers thread into her hair like a lost memory.

“Jesus, Emily. _Jesus_.” She doesn’t need encouraging, doing a fucking brilliant job as it is, but the words tumbling out of you seem to do just that.

Because Emily moans, and it reverberates into you so that your fingers flex in her hair, and against the sofa where you’ve clenched your other hand. Your hips start to move, but Emily stays on task until the pressure is too intense. You open your eyes just once, and seeing her there – eyes closed, mouth hungry, fingers clawing at your ribs – is enough to do you in. Because no one’s fucked you like this in ages. And no one’s _ever_ fucked you as well as Emily. So when you come, it’s hard and loud and almost, bloody cathartic for how light and lovely you feel directly after. 

Emily’s still kissing along your inner thigh as you lay there watching her, catching your breath and considering only briefly poor Walter’s article and how it’s magazine page beneath your bum is now likely ruined.

“You alright?” Emily asks quietly, once she’s fit herself into the crevice between you and the back cushions of your sofa – a space so small, only she would find it comfortable.

“A bit of a loaded question, don’t you think?”

She’s placed a hand laid flat on your chest, and with one finger traces the small dip in your clavicle. “Are you upset that I’m here?”

Your sigh is nearly laughter. “You can’t ask me something like that after you just did what you did, Emily.”

“You should know,” she says quietly, “I fly out tomorrow.”

A kind of crushing feeling hits your chest, making it hard to breath in, so you just exhale instead, “Fuck, Emily.”

“I know. I’m sorry – I didn’t plan for any of this to happen, not quite like this. I just –“ her short laugh is like a quick puff of air against your skin “—I think my brain like, short-circuits when I’m around you or something,” she stops with a long sigh.

“We’re both sort of guilty of that.”

It’s quiet in your flat, save for the sounds of your breathing, and you briefly wonder how long you could stay with Emily just as you are.

The reasons you can’t, of course, are endless. Reality continues to loom, no matter your choosing to ignore it. You’re on borrowed time, the both of you. A condition so frail – the idea of being with her in this capacity – you’re instantly aware to tread lightly. And so you start small, by saying her name.

She hums in response, still moving her fingers to trace indelible lines along your chest.

“We should talk.”

Emily sits up just slightly, licks her lips, and says nothing.

“I mean, shouldn’t we?”

And she just nods, a little sadly, like a small child that’s just been told playtime is over.

The knock at your door comes just as you’ve slipped back into your pyjama bottoms, and Emily stands topless beside you, mirroring your look of surprise.

“Expecting someone?”

“No,” you say, drawing out the word while looking over your shoulder towards the front door of your flat. “Although, that seems to be the running theme this weekend.” You turn around laughing, only after Emily’s jabbed you in the ribs, to find her eyes narrowed and her mouth working to keep from smiling.

It's a look so irresistible, you feel an immediate urge to lean down and kiss it right off her face. And since your entire, fucking life seems to have turned on its head, it's precisely what you do.

There's a second knock, mid kiss, which finally propels you into motion, and you follow a trail of yours and Emily's clothes into the kitchen, like you're bloody Hansel and Gretel.

 “Do you want me to start the kettle again or something?” she asks.

“Sure. Thanks,” you say, and then pause after you’ve slipped back into your vest top and sweatshirt, to watch Emily fill the kettle at your sink.

And you shouldn’t let your mind go there – to that place that wants to believe this could be it, and that it could be good. To that place where Emily’s domesticity makes your heart swell like some soppy newlywed. But it’s almost unstoppable, the way your restraint has always been complete shit where Emily is concerned.

So it’s not until Emily’s looked over her shoulder at you and said with some force, _‘Door,’_ that you snap out of it and leave the room.

You’ve practically forgotten that you have a life outside of Emily Fitch, her roaming hands, and her infectious laugh. You’ve practically forgotten that it’s not a Bristol autumn, that you’re not seventeen having fucked off Maths to hide out in your bedroom, naked and laughing and getting tangled in your bed sheets.

But then reality has always had a way of confronting you in tidal waves.

“Hi.”

“Oh, hey. Hi.” You’ve pulled the door back at an angle, still holding the door handle with one hand and have leant your hip and shoulder against it. “I didn’t – um, did we have plans?” You squint at the girl on your doorstep, and rub at your temple.

“No, sorry, I was just down at the shop, and I thought I’d—“ she lifts her hand where a white box in a plastic bag is hooked on one finger “—well, I brought you some Brooklyn Blackout.”

Your eyes widen and she smiles. She’s always had a nice smile.

“Oh, well, thanks,” you say as she hands over the bag. “Bit rich for breakfast, but—“

“Some of us were awake before five, you know,” she quips. “Eleven-thirty feels like a late lunch.”

 _Shit, nearly midday and not even a full cup of coffee_ , you think. _Fucking Emily and her grabby, fucking hands_.

As if on cue, it’s Emily’s voice you hear next, just over your shoulder from the doorway of the kitchen. And you turn your head when she says, “Hey.” The rest unfolding like the plot of some poorly-written sitcom.

“Oh, hi,” Emily says [cheerily, because honestly the girl just can’t help herself] once she’s seen your guest, who then responds with her own surprised, _‘Hello.’_ Emily gives you a quick, sidelong glance when she’s come to stand next to you at the doorway.

“Um, this is Reagan,” you fumble with a small gesture towards the girl stood on your doorstep. “She’s just come by with some, uh, cake.” You chance a look over at Emily, waiting to see how she's assessing this entirely random encounter. But she doesn't miss a beat, and any reaction or suspicions she might be having are well hidden behind her smile.

“Hello, lovely to meet you,” Emily beams, extending her hand and Reagan takes it, smiles back.

You do a quick mental calculation as to  _which_  hand Emily's proffered, given what's just transpired in your sitting room, but brush the thought aside when your face grows instantly hot.

“Oh, _shit_ – it’s Ellie right? I totally spaced on your friend being here,” Reagan says.

And you’re still trying to figure out on which count to correct her first: the fact that you don’t have a friend called Ellie, or that this isn’t at all the friend, _Effy_ , whom you’d told her about previously.

Instead, Emily answers with a casual wave of her hand, “No, it’s Effy, actually, but it’s fine.” As if she’s been fielding this confusion on a name that isn’t even hers for her whole life.

You look over at her incredulously, indecisive between asking Emily what the fuck she's on about and fully thanking her for the quick improvisation. Because introducing Emily as Effy, no matter how absurd, is so obviously an easier feat than introducing Emily as  _Emily_.

It goes quiet for a few agonising seconds where you know you’re probably meant to invite Reagan in or say _something_ , at the very least. But you just stand there, like a mong, and hope that the floor might swallow you up.

“Well, I should get going,” Reagan finally says awkwardly. “But, it was nice to meet you.”

Emily just keeps looking over at you, like she’s worried that you might’ve _actually_ gone dumb, but then looks back to Reagan as she speaks.

“Don’t be silly. I’ve just started some fresh coffee – stay for a cup, yeah?”

“Right,” you finally manage, clearing your throat. “You should come in for a bit – it’s got to be fucking freezing out there.”

“It’s not bad, but you know I can’t turn down coffee,” Reagan laughs.

“Lovely,” Emily smiles. “Girl after my own heart.” She steps back to let Reagan into your flat, her arm falling beside your own so that your fingers graze just quickly enough to notice. “Plus, anyone who pops round with cake,” Emily continues, following after Reagan but casting one, last look back at you, part amusement, part intrigue, “is definitely someone I’m interested in getting to know.”

Emily and Reagan disappear into the kitchen as the door clicks shut and your weight collapses against it even as your head tips back and you exhale, “Fucking hell.”

**

Outside the front door, your bare feet already cold and tingling even through the doormat on which you're stood, Reagan says, "Well, Effy is incredibly awesome. I felt really stupid showing up here at first, but I’m really glad to have met her. And she's not quiet _at all_ – I don't know what you were talking about last week."

Your answering smile is a bit resigned as you bow your head. The past hour had been, remarkably, less traumatic and more enjoyable. Emily kept most of the conversation in Reagan’s corner, avoiding the subject of her own life in London almost entirely. It should make you feel marginally better, that Emily, for her part in the ruse, hadn’t also spent the entire meeting continuing a fabrication of herself as Effy. But, you feel a bit sick instead, because _Christ_ , this is a conversation you actually can't avoid.

It's through a long sigh that you then look back up to her. "Reagan, Effy didn't come to New York this weekend."

"What are you talking about?" she asks in that way where early confusion always leads to small bits of uncomfortable laughter.

"When I got to JFK last night, Effy wasn't there. But," clearing your throat, " _Emily_ was." And then, for emphasis, you tip a shoulder towards the door at your back.

"I don't get it," she says shaking her head with narrowed eyes and a fading smile.

"Emily's an old friend from college, or high school, whatever, just not the one I was expecting. Not Effy."

"You're going to have to do better than that, Naomi." Reagan crosses her arms, which only makes her demand feel that much more intimidating, even though she's not raised her voice at all and is still kind of smirking.

"I don't really know why Emily pretended to be someone else," you try again, feebly stumbling over any words with more than one syllable, "except off the look of panic on my face, she may have thought she was doing me a favour or something."

"A favour? Why would lying about who she is be doing you a favour?"

It's warranted, her frustration. Because you're doing a shit job of explaining a pretty basic misunderstanding. And it's not going to be any less awkward the longer you beat around it. Anyway, once upon a time, being unapologetically blunt had been more like second nature to you.

"She's an old girlfriend," you rush out, placing a hand to your forehead, an anxious habit you've never broken. "Sort of _the_ old girlfriend, actually. The first and – most significant.”

Reagan takes a short step backwards. “Oh.”

“And when she saw you and me and, I don't know, the bloody cake – I imagine she was trying to save me from having to explain to someone, well, someone like _you_ , why she's here in Effy’s stead."

Reagan smiles, a small, kind of sad one, and looks away for a minute. "Right, someone like me."

"I’m sorry, Reagan, but I'm not really sure what you are to me, or what I am to you for that matter. I mean, we’ve not really discussed it, have we?"

When she looks back to you, her expression is less wounded and her smile – the nicer one, the warmer one – is back. "And what about _Emily_?" She says her name kind of exaggerated and drawn out, a subtle reminder that she's not going to easily forget that you’ve just had her on for the better part of an hour. "What's she to you?"

"Reagan—“

"I'm sorry, that was rude, and it’s none of my business, actually." She waits just a beat, then adds, "But, I mean, you guys keep in touch?" Because the curiosity must be killing her.

"No," you answer, and then with emphasis, " _no_ , not at all, actually. I'd not heard from her or seen her in ages. But then, I had an opening in London, and we sort of stumbled into each other again." Reagan nods, just once, like she’s trying to piece things together. "When I left in September, though, and came home, I didn't hear from her again – until yesterday."

"Oh my god – so she just showed up? Without calling you or anything? Who does that?"

 _Emily Fitch does_ , you think. _Emily_ fucking _Fitch_.

You nod and cross your arms, lean back against the door. "Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction as well."

Reagan's look of sudden shock softens then, and she regards you with something you've not ever seen in her before.

"You're happy she's here though?"

"I – I don't know what I am," you say, shaking your head.

"No," she says more quietly. "No, I wasn't asking." There's a kindness to her tone when she says, "You're happy, Naomi. I can tell."

Unable to answer straight away, you pause, wondering how it is that this continues to happen. How people in your life seem to read you so effortlessly when it comes to Emily. First your mum at the kitchen table in that old, yellow cottage, back when you're certain you never wore an expression of anything other than misery. And then again in London, Effy recognising the return of some, old emotion you'd buried far away, on another continent. You can't help feeling self-conscious then, of your own transparency.

So you just say, "It's complicated." And then your laughter, like a bark, echoes through the empty corridor, because it’s such a fucking, insufficient word. "It's so far _beyond_ complicated."

“And that makes me," she narrows her eyes, though not maliciously, more like she's searching for something she expects to find written on your face. “The uncomplicated option?”

It’s not so black-and-white, this equation. Though a greater part of you almost wishes it were. So immediately, you start shaking your head in opposition.

Still, you’ve got to come clean with her, if only partially. “You've been more of a … distraction. A very lovely and welcomed distraction.”

You watch her exhale, looking off down the corridor. And you wait for her to again meet your eye, but she doesn't before saying, “I'm gonna go.”

"Reagan, look—“

“But, you can call me later if you want to talk.”

“Really?” You almost take a step backwards, from the shock of her offer.

Reagan’s smiling when she looks back at you. “Yeah, sure. I can't be your _distraction_ , Naomi, but I think I can be your friend. If you want?”

“Thanks,” you say, barely audible, because it's not easy receiving kindness from a person to whom you've just admitted being a completely selfish tit.

Only after she's left, disappeared down the stairwell, do you realise the bottoms of your feet have gone completely numb.

**

“She's nice,” Emily says once you've returned to the sitting room, exceptionally bright now that the clouds have broken apart, and sunlight always pours through your front windows at this time of day.

“The feeling is apparently mutual.” You take slow steps towards the sofa, Emily looking far too relaxed wrapped in a blanket at one end.

“So is she – I mean, you two are—“

“We’ve spent some time getting to know each other, so I suppose that makes us friends,” you sigh, plopping inelegantly onto the other end of your sofa.

“Really?” Emily eyes you suspiciously.

“Yes, _really_ ,” you say with a pointed look. "Whatever we might have become, or whatever I'd considered pursuing with her, has expired – rather abruptly.” Along the fabric of a sofa cushion, your fingers trace patterns that aren't there; and when you look back up to her, realisation is registering all across Emily's face.

Timidly, she says, “You told her I'm not Effy.”

“Keeping up false pretences with my friends isn't really a habit I'm trying to form. Why would you do that in the first place, Em?” you ask, smiling.

“I don't know,” she laughs, turning her face into the back cushions. “You sort of looked like you might vomit or something, and I just panicked. I've already ruined your weekend with Effy, and the last thing I wanted to do was ruin anything else.” She looks down then, towards your hand. “Though, clearly I've managed to.”

“The only thing you’ve managed as far as Reagan is concerned, is to confuse the shit out of her. But, we’re still friends, I think. She's great, and I would probably _wed_ her pastries if it were legal, but anything more than friendship probably would have been a mistake.”

Emily looks at you again, not even attempting to hide her relief. And she's always sort of been this contrast between achingly beautiful and incredibly sexy, but _Jesus_ , you've forgotten how overwhelming it can be just to _look_ at her. So you turn away, lips curling up beyond your control, and say, “Anyway, I think it's safe to say you haven't _ruined_ my weekend.”

Emily blushes, beaming into the blanket where she's wrapped it around her left hand, the result of which nearly crumbles the last of your resolve to have this sodding chat. But, you're well aware that procrastination [and shagging, for that matter] will take you only so far. If you've retained anything from sixth form, it certainly wasn't _Hamlet_.

“Good,” Emily says after a moment, and presses her lips together when her chin comes to rest on the knee she's got tucked up to her chest.

“So.”

“So,” she echoes.

“This feels a bit weird,” you admit, furrowing your brow.

“Yeah, I know.” Emily exhales heavily and sits back. “I don't really know where to start.”

And you sort of laugh then because, “You got on a plane, Emily. You crossed a fucking _ocean_. Why not start there?”

She laughs a bit too, then brings both knees up close to her chest, hugs them there, looking impossibly small under the bulk of your yellow, fuzzy blanket.

You’re still thinking about the size of her – how she was always useless at simple tasks like grocery shops [high shelves] or finding you in crowded parks [limited field of vision] – when she says something so massive, you can’t imagine how she hasn’t collapsed from the weight of it.

“Katie thinks I should tell you that I’m still in love with you.”

It feels instantly like someone’s boxed your ears, the way you can’t hear for long seconds before they start ringing. But then Emily keeps talking, casting her eyes to her feet as they peek out from beneath the blanket.

“And Effy,” Emily fiddles with the loose stitches of your blanket where it’s frayed. “She says that you’re still in love with me.”

Your chest still feels constricted, making it hard to breathe let alone respond, but you manage to push past it enough to say flatly, “I think I liked it better when Effy barely spoke and your sister was repulsed by us.”

When you look up again, Emily seems equal parts expectant and anxious when she asks, “Are you?”

You almost choke on the words. “Well, are _you_?”

But then Emily’s features soften as she tilts her head by the smallest fraction, her eyes as warm as the sun on your face. “You really have to ask?”

“This is _crazy_ , Emily.” Your hands feel cool where you’ve pressed them to your face, covering it to avoid looking at her, and applying pressure to your eye sockets.

“Is it?”

“Yes, of course it fucking is!”

Emily only shakes her head. “ _Crazy_ is seeing you walk into a coffee shop after ten, fucking years, Naomi. But, everything else – everything that happened between us in London and me ending up here, sat across from you and realising how so little has changed—“

“Things _have_ changed.”

“Not anything that matters.”

“You have a child, Emily. With someone else.”

She smiles, kindly, and something about it sets you on fire. “I’m aware.”

Your voice begins to rise with agitation. “And I live in New York.”

“Naomi—“

“And you live _in London_.”

“Yeah alright, so we’ve got shit odds at making this work,” Emily finally concedes, though her lips still curl up in a way that irks you.

“Emily, there are shit odds and then there’s us.” You turn your head to look out the window, shaking it helplessly. “It doesn’t work like this.”

“What doesn’t?”

When your head snaps back to her, you can actually feel the blood pumping through you. How it’s quickening, a dam cracking open and soon everything will rush out. “Fuck’s sake, Emily, I have a _life_ here – a job, and friends, and a set routine, and a flat that I really like.”

Emily nods slowly. “Okay.”

There’s a throbbing in your ears, some pulsing that hasn’t stopped since hearing Emily say ‘ _I’m in love with you_ ,’ and your voice, though you’re attempting some control, is more frantic than anything. You fling your hands into the air, let them fall onto your legs. “And you just show up, turn everything on its fucking head, and expect that – what? What did you expect this would solve, coming here? What is it that you want?”

But Emily just keeps this calm – breathing easily, speaking slowly – which is thoroughly infuriating. And though you almost wish she’d just flare up, go mental, and help oxygenate the combustion building inside your chest walls, the sound of her voice is also like a balm to every wound she’s just ripped open. It doesn’t seem fair then that she can be both your affliction and relief.

“I want you to come back home. I want you in London. And, I want you in my life on a permanent basis,” she says, easily, like she’s just ticked off a list of films she’d like to see. “But, my being here isn’t about what I want. None of those things matter if you don’t want them too.”

Of course Emily knows what she wants. When has she not? And, it’s always been this way – Emily coming to you with clearly carved declarations, while you struggle to tread water, trying to keep pace. Of course she looks to you as she always has – like you should know, just as readily, what _you_ want.

You want a strong drink. And a fag. And perhaps a time travel device to go back and _not_ give in to your craving for caffeine on that sunny afternoon in early August. Or to have resisted the urge to kiss her, not some twelve hours earlier.

None of that is actually true. Looking at her now, knowing you’d not avoid any of this given the opportunity, it can’t possibly be true.

You _do_ actually want a fag, but you’ve quit them [again] and have been quite consistent in resisting your urges because, although the partial pack is still tucked away on a bookshelf, you haven’t had one since—

“I want to know why you sent it.”

Emily blinks, her face falling in confusion. But then she catches on just as quickly. “My writing from university?”

Your pulse has already begun to quicken, and thinking about nicotine sure as fuck isn’t helping.

“We don’t speak for over a month and then—“ you stop, remembering the day, remembering Emily’s font on the envelope, remembering the first time your eyes fell to the page “—it’s a curious way to communicate with someone, don’t you think?”

Her voice is softer than you’ve heard it in quite some time. Almost cautiously she says, “We’ve never talked about it – Manchester and everything that happened there, even after – but I needed you to know that it wasn’t,” Emily pauses, takes a purposeful breath, “I fucked up. I fucked everything up. And, I needed you to know that. I figured it out too late, but I still just needed you to know.”

You feel a sort of empathy for her then, that she’s been carrying this around. That she’s been haunted by some decision she made back when choosing poorly was basically a fucking rite of passage. You’ve carried a similar burden over the years, some leftover part of you that will maybe always take responsibility for cocking things up where Emily is concerned, simply because you’d done it so well for so long.

At first it _was_ her fault, all of it. Later, you came to blame yourself for your own stubborn ideals. Then it was no one’s – just some twist of fate that left you both miserable and alone. Now, maybe it’s something shared. You feel almost lighter at that, like the weight of whatever you’ve been hauling about won’t be so tasking if you’re doing it together.

So you just tell her quietly, “It was a long time ago.” It doesn’t say enough. But then, maybe you don’t have to say everything all at once.

“For what it’s worth at this point, I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

You smile for a moment, hoping Emily might join you, but she still looks incredibly apprehensive, and you then realise you’ve now avoided not one but _two_ major questions she’s been brave enough to ask.

So you start in slowly, approaching each word carefully. “I’d do almost anything, you know, once you’ve asked. I have a kind of weakness for saying ‘no’ to your face.”

Emily swallows down the start of a smirk, and you could strangle her really, because of _course_ she already knew this about you. But her face falls again quickly as you continue.

“But, I can’t pick up and leave my life here, Emily. I can’t go back to London. Not even for you.”

Her voice wavers just barely in protest. “But, it’s not the same as before. This doesn’t have to be Manchester, and I’m not—“

“No, it’s not the same,” you interject softly. “And _we’re_ not the same, Emily. So, let’s not make the same mistakes, okay?”

Emily fidgets from under the blanket, stretches out her legs then pulls them back, tucking her feet under her bum.

“And is this – being with me, I mean – would that be a mistake?”

“ _Not_ being with you has always been the mistake, I think.”

She relaxes a bit, her face does anyway, and finally allows herself a barely-there smile.

“But,” you continue with a long sigh, “that doesn’t change anything for us. We can’t keep following this pattern of rash decisions and grand declarations, expecting all the pieces around us to magically fall into place.” She looks like she wants to argue, but you push on. “You’ve just gotten out of something _massive_. Fuck’s sake, Rose is still in your life, Emily, and that’s not likely to change. Regardless of what’s happened, not very long ago you were _in love_ with her.”

Emily doesn’t answer, just looks away towards the kitchen.

“Hey,” you finally say to her after a long minute.

When she meets your eye, there’s a desperation there you’re not prepared to see. “I can’t do this again, Naomi. I’m trying _not_ to make the same mistakes – and giving up on us, letting you fucking disappear, I won’t do that again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

When your head comes to rest against the back cushions, Emily follows suit, the two of you left to watch each other in silence down the length of your sofa.

“I need time, Emily.” Her eyes fall closed almost painfully. “And so do you.”

She sits up suddenly, her eyes now blazing. “I need _you_.” You have to look away, even for a moment, to not collapse into her entirely. “Please, Naomi. I don’t want to waste any more time not being with you.”

It’s easier to speak candidly when your gaze is on the window. “Thought this wasn’t about what you want.”

Emily flinches into the couch’s corner, her entire frame slumping in defeat. “It’s not.” Her voice is small and sullen, her eyes locked on the coffee table.

You can’t stand to see her so withdrawn, your voice noticeably softened when you tell her, “I want to be with you, Emily.” She won’t meet your eye, even after you’ve stretched your legs to that your feet are touching hers somewhere under the blanket. “I’ve never _not_ wanted to be with you.”

It feels truer, hearing yourself say it a second time. Because you _have_ been waiting for this. You’ve been busying yourself with your work, and your travel, and your passing fancies. But, it’s now so glaringly obvious, sat across from the same girl who broke into your heart and stole all its pieces a million years ago, that it’s never _not_ been all about her.

Emily’s toes wriggle beneath the blanket; you can feel them under your feet. She still fiddles her hands, biting her lip, and avoids your eye.

And a nervous lilt has crept up when you tell her, “Say something.”

“You have to stop telling me things like that,” she finally answers, the smallest of smiles found on her lips.

“Oh?” A similar smile pulls at your mouth when Emily does meet your eye. “Why?”

“Because I’ll never get on that flight tomorrow.”

It feels like you’ve just pedalled up some monstrous incline, and your smile towards Emily’s warm, brown eyes feels like coasting down the other side.

“All part of my master plan.”

She smiles more fully, and then can’t seem to look away for anything. So your heart rate starts to quicken as you anxiously await the next big thing to crack open your sitting room.

But then Emily, being Emily, says something so simple and sweet you almost can’t believe you’ve just made the decision to stay in New York without her.

“Can I come over there now?”

You just laugh, part relief part nerves, and nod quickly as Emily makes her way along the cushions, wrapping the yellow blanket around the both of you once she’s laid between your legs and resting on your chest and stomach. Your arms wrap tightly around her, holding her in place. At least for now.

“Think you’d be up for leaving the flat today?”

Emily laughs, snuggling in closer.

“Believe it or not, there are far more interesting parts of the city than these four walls,” you continue, resting your chin atop her head.

But she props up at that, her answering smile one of your favourites – the crooked one that’s always reminded you of Emily’s hidden streak of deviance. “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.”

“Fair enough.” Your eyes dart quickly to her mouth – so close it’s hard _not_ to look – before finding her eyes again.

But it’s too late. Emily’s already seen it happen, and your heart’s pounding so fiercely with the need to kiss her, she must feel it against her own chest.

“When should we leave?” she asks, though it sounds like a question of which she doesn’t expect an answer.

So you lean in, mumbling, “Later,” just before pressing your mouth to hers and sliding your hands up the sides of her shirt. 

**

In the back of a taxi, somewhere between your flat at Prospect Heights, Emily takes your hand, rests her head on your shoulder. And though you’ve seen her climax at least three times in the past 36 hours. Though you’ve sat and shared your feelings on some of the darkest parts of your lives. Though she watched you – sweetly yet still unabashedly – dress for dinner, it still feels like the most intimate act you’ve shared: Emily’s thumb rubbing softly to the back of your hand in a darkened taxi.

You’d not gotten to show her everything on the list – and the fact that there’s _actually_ a list makes you blush a bit even now, even though it’s dark and Emily’s not looking anyway – but you’d not ever expected the chance for any of it. So you try again to stop hating the unjust rate at which time passes.

Emily had taken the bedroom to dress and ring Katie while you busied yourself elsewhere, having always taken less time to get ready than her. And it’s not as if you can’t be trusted to be in the same room as her while she latches her bra and selects a clean pair of knickers. You’re not a crazed sex monster, for fuck’s sake. Still, you’ve not had access to Emily’s bits in fucking ages, and the temptations to keep her in a perpetual state of undress, are apparently best warded by leaving the room altogether.

You’d found the list while scanning the bookshelves in the sitting room. It was scrawled at the back of some, old sketch pad in different coloured inks. The old book is something from university [the _second_ time around]. Something from that first year, when New York was equal parts terrifying and mesmerising. When you’d convinced yourself that learning to live a life without Emily would best be done in fragments.

You’d removed yourself from her life upon request – vanished sort of brilliantly without trace, your mum sworn to absolute secrecy – but you’d never asked Emily the same courtesy. What’s good for the goose does _not_ always suit the gander. And so you moved away from the idea of her at a slower pace.

Thought of her on long subway rides. Cried from the separation while doing coursework in your bed. Hung old photographs of you and her in your very first flat – the ones you’d always favoured from that first summer between sixth form. When you’d finally learnt to let go a bit when it came to her. And your smile is always genuine, and Emily’s eyes are always so bright. And you half-wonder how the two of you didn’t end up breaking the camera lens from the sheer force of your infatuations.

The list started then too, around the time you got adventurous about this new city. And you’d wander about on Saturdays when your head would hurt and your hand would cramp from taking notes on art history for three straight hours. Originally, the sketch book came along as a sort of prop. It felt less weird sitting in parks and riding on trains if you looked deeply occupied with something.

But then you’d turned up at Grand Army Plaza one afternoon, in search of the park, and you’d thought of her. How Emily’s eyes would’ve turn deliciously deviant, how she’d have grabbed your hand and in rushed whispers devised a plan to crack the locks and scale the massive structure from the inside. You’d have stood beneath the giant arch and let her corner you into the shadows like a couple of trained conspirators.

 _“Tall buildings are meant to bend at great heights to keep from breaking,”_ she’d say. _“Can you imagine, a slab of cement and stone that’s pliable?”_

And you’d have gone along with it, grinning at the scheming tone in her voice as it dropped octaves lower than should be possible. You’d have agreed to any of it. You’d have gone along with it all.

“I’m so hungry,” Emily says, her head bouncing against your shoulder just once when you laugh.

“You’re _always_ hungry.”

When her head turns, the challenging arc to her eyebrow  is unfairly seductive. “I’ve been particularly _active_ today, yeah?”

The taxi lurches as the driver nearly avoid collision, and your hand reaches out to catch the back of his seat on instinct.

“Jesus,” you breathe out, because placing your life in these drivers’ hands day after day still catches you off-guard from time to time. And then clearing your throat, you look back to Emily. “Surely a bit of walking hasn’t exhausted you, has it?”

“No.” The lights from the cars flash red against her face and hair, her cheeky smile. “Not the walking.”

**

At dinner, Emily orders sangria, and you think of Old San Juan. Of the music and the dancing and the sandy freckles that began to appear on her shoulder caps after so many days in the sun. You must blank out for longer than intended because when Emily’s hand finds yours on the table top, you can tell she’s already tried once to get your attention by the way she says, “Naomi.”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you’ve had any of the quesadillas. I’m thinking of the tinga.”

“Oh,” scanning the menu, you locate the item and look up to find her bent over in concentration. Her bottom lip pinched between her teeth. “Braised _pollo_ , Emily? Whatever would Jenna say to know you’re now ordering chicken?”

Emily settles on a musing look just over your left shoulder. “Should my _mum_ find out about this weekend, I’m sure my dietary choices would be the last of her concerns, yeah?”

“Right,” you say with a small nod, smiling despite your lips clamping shut. “Well, I’ve not had the chicken, but everything I tried has been excellent. Besides, have you ever met a meal you didn’t devour regardless of its culinary merit?”

Emily, who’s smaller frame has never appropriately represented her monstrous appetite, shrugs and leans back into her chair. “I love food.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Katie says hello, by the way.”

Finishing a sip of water, you respond, “Everyone managing?”

Emily laughs. “Yeah, I think so. Katie apparently coerced Effy into a Saturday shop, and Lewis took a liking to her.”

“Her wiles have been known to have that effect on the opposite sex.”

Emily’s face scrunches even as the toe of her boot finds your shin beneath the table. “Oi! That’s my son you’re talking about.”

The drinks arrive while your laughter dies out. Emily takes her first sip with closed eyes, makes a sound of appreciation and licks her lips. It’s a deep purple-red, like wild cherries, and thick with fresh fruit. It’ll stain her lips and tongue, you think; by the third drink, she’ll be fishing out the orange slices with her fingers.

You’re still playing with this image of her in your head when Emily asks, “So, how exactly is this meant to work?”

You’ve taken all of three sips of your Modelo when Emily’s blunt question flops onto the table.

“How is what meant to work exactly?”

“This weekend has been—“ she glances around the restaurant, suppressing a smile. “It’s been lovely, obviously. But, I’m leaving, Naomi. Tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” you answer, readjusting the napkin along your lap.

“And,” she insists, “I don’t want to lose this again.” She waves her hand in the space between you, just above the table. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You didn’t lose me, Emily,” you’ve said before censoring yourself is even an option, “you told me to go.”

The restaurant is rife with activity, people busying about with plates of hot food and trays of drinks. But when Emily’s face falls, everything stills around you, and your breathing echoes – slow and laboured – like you’ve plugged your ears.

“I’m sorry.” You can’t reach for her hand as you say it, even though it’s what you’d like to do. Emily’s got them tucked into her lap.

“Don’t say that. I did this, Naomi. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

You lean forward on your elbows, laying your hand onto the table like an olive branch. Emily eyes it momentarily before looking back to you as you offer with a small shrug, “Maybe neither of us have to be sorry anymore.”

**

Much later, your head still swimming with too much beer and an overdose of Emily’s warm skin, you lie facing her in the semi-darkness of your room. She looks ridiculously lovely, wrapped up in your bed sheets, lying across from you.

Her voice is soft as it scratches out. “Tell me something.”

“Tell you what?”

Emily smiles and touches your jaw, tracing a line to your chin. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

And you can still see it, the way her crooked fringe would fall across her forehead. The way her hand, still nervous back then, would reach out to right it, brushing it from her eyes. The way her lips would twitch whenever her eyes fell to your mouth, and her tongue would dart to wet them.

So you say with a  fond smile, “I miss your red hair.”

Emily laughs, and then says, “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

She doesn’t respond, and it grows quiet while you both slow your breathing, sleep encroaching on what little time you have left. Emily turns into you, pulling your arm around her and clasping to your hand once she’s pulled it beneath her chin.

You think she could be asleep because she’s been silent for a bit, and you can feel how her breathing’s evened out where you’re wrapped around her from behind. You could slip off at any minute as well, utterly knackered from one of the craziest weekends of your entire life.

But then you hear your name, and it’s hardly more than a whisper. “Naomi.”

“Hmm?”

“What Effy told me, about you – is it true?”

There’s not much space between you – sharing a pillow and all – but your arm flexes just enough to pull her closer. Your lips find the skin of her back, her bared shoulder.

And then quietly, against her skin, you echo her sentiment. “You really have to ask?”

**

You wake to a sensation that’s so familiar, it’s easy to forget for quick seconds that anything in your life has changed since turning seventeen. The soft pads of Emily’s fingers skate down your neck and shoulder, finding their way to your elbow and back again. It’s a bit ticklish against your skin, but Emily’s always found the right pressure to wake you without your arm jerking away, instinctually, from the touch. Your eyes open – one and then the other – squinting a bit against the morning light, and Emily’s hand pauses midway to your shoulder.

“Morning,” you yawn, reaching to bury it into the corner of your pillow. “You’ve been awake?”

“For a bit.”

Her face, always incredibly peaceful upon waking, looks unsettled. So you ask, “What is it?”

She leans into you, places her mouth where your jaw meets your ear and whispers, “Come to London with me.” And then pulls back, just enough to catch your eye.

You’re already smiling when the back of your hand slides along the warm skin of her stomach, coming to rest on her side. “Yeah, alright.”

Emily’s reaction snaps from shock to scepticism in a blink. “I don’t remember you ever being this easily persuaded.”

She holds her breath, biting her bottom lip when you’ve swiped a thumb across her nipple. “Well, then you also don’t recall how my being propositioned while you’re _naked_ puts me at a terrible disadvantage for rational thought.”

Emily swallows, then struggles to say, “I’ll have to make note of that.” She moves into your touch, again placing her mouth along your jaw, and your pulse quickens.

You’ve begun to snog rather heatedly, all that lovely morning skin that’s still so warm pressing against each other. She seems to appreciate the way your thigh slides between her legs, by the sound it elicits from her mouth pressed against yours. And you can appreciate the damp heat your find there. Her hand is making its way from your chest downward, quickly grazing along your stomach, when Emily’s mobile goes and you pull apart, breathing heavily, at the sound of it.

“Sorry,” she pants, extracting herself from where you’ve gotten tangled, and reaches back for her phone. Emily clears her throat before answering. “Hi, Katie.”

Nothing like an intrusion from Katie Fitch to fuel your frustrations; but then you remember, a call from Katie means news of Lewis, no doubt. And as you watch her, you can see where the cracks have started to form. Tiny fissures in a brittle epidermis.

Almost abruptly, you remember that you’ve unfairly placed Emily in a world that doesn’t really exist. Or, she’s put herself there, it’s moot at this point anyway. It’s a world where it’s you and her and no one else. Where you eat late dinners and drink until you please, where you can giggle in the back of taxis for no reason at all. Where you wake on lazy Sundays and shag until early afternoon without any concern for the world outside.

But the walls of it – this place where you’ve both sort of hidden away – are penetrated effortlessly by the sounds of Emily’s voice as she speaks to Katie about where to find extra nappies and altered sleep schedules. The destruction of it is imminent, and you’ve only just remembered its instability.

“Thanks, Katie. I’ll ring you when I’ve landed.” Emily smiles over at you, reaches for your hand, which she plucks up easily since it – like the rest of your extremities – has gone suddenly numb. “Put him to the phone so I can talk to him, will you?”

You turn away from her then, slide your legs from under the blankets so your feet hit the cool, wooden floor. A few toes graze a pair of black knickers – they could be hers, you can’t really tell – while your arm bends behind your back at an awkward angle because Emily’s still holding your hand. The surface of your tongue feels tacky against your teeth, like the moisture’s not gone completely just enough to make you feel a bit sick. And you feel both hot and cold, sweat gathering along your upper lip even as a chill runs down your bare arms, from your recent revelations.

Emily ends the call, and you swallow hard, shutting your eyes against the feel of her hands on your skin.

“Where are you off to?”

She’s back to the Emily from before – playfully seductive as she draws long lines down your spine.

But you can’t un-know it: that there are two of her now.

The Emily made for Lewis, who came about, in part, because of Rose.

And, the Emily who’s come back for you.

“Coffee,” you say after lightly clearing your throat.

“Coffee can wait, yeah?”

“Yeah, ‘course it can.” Emily’s face is brightening as you say it and her smile is widening even as you lower back down onto her.

It can all wait.

You repeat it like a mantra, pushing back the doubt that’s crawling over your skin like ivy, threatening to strangle every ounce of you that wants this. That wants Emily. And moving your thigh between her legs, pressing into her, feels like breaking free from it. Grabbing fistfuls of her hair is like snapping vines.

When Emily hums into your neck, when she stutters moans into your mouth and against your tongue, you think, she wants this. You think: _We want this same thing, and that’s all that matters_. You want to tell her this. You want to be sure she knows. And so you take what you want, and Emily lets you, she listens.

You’ve kept these separate lives, become different people. You’ve grown up and grown apart and learnt new ways to live, found new ways to love.

 _It can all wait, this is all that matters. It can all wait, this is all that matters_.

There’s no room for words – this small cocoon you’ve built already splintering apart – but Emily watches intently as your fingers slide into her because you’re saying it all to her this way. And she’s listening. 

Emily comes hard, you feel it ripple through her from beneath your weight – legs twitching, skin damp, fingers pressed hard into your shoulders. But then she’s crying in short, uncontrolled sobs, never looking away even as the tears brim and roll down her temples. You still against her, and everything goes quiet. You watch her, face fallen and flushed, and you know everything you’ve just told her is a lie.

**

Over coffee, an unsettling quiet, not unlike Emily’s first few hours with you, falls over the flat. You think about all the things you’re not saying, all the intricacies between you that have only compounded over the past two days. It’s a kind of self-preservation then, when you push them away, like unruly strands of hair that keep finding your eyelashes, and look to her.

She’s got one leg tucked up onto the chair where she’s sat, pinning it between her chest and the table. The track pants she’d asked to borrow are too long; the hem on that leg hanging low and nearly covering her entire foot even though you know she’s got them rolled at the waist. It used to be like this. It used to be all you knew – Emily in your clothes and at your breakfast table, drinking her coffee with loads of sugar and cream.

“What?” she asks, and you realise only then that you’ve likely been looking at her, dazed and dreamily, for quite some time.

And so you sort of flush, looking back to your own coffee and the newspaper before you, because sentimentality has never felt very natural to you even where Emily is concerned. Even when you can’t help yourself.

“Nothing. Just remembering.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” You finally look up at her, smiling even though the heat is still in your cheeks. Even though Emily looks like she’s about to make you expound on the memory.

“Anything in particular?”

You take a sip and shrug. “My mum’s house, I guess. Just – you spent quite a lot of time there, didn’t you?”

Emily’s entire demeanour warms at the mention of your mum, and you almost have to close your eyes to stop them from rolling dramatically at the thought of them. _Bloody chums from the start_ , you think. Because despite your being too stubborn, and then too scared, and finally too possessive to allow Gina any part of Emily, they’d found their way.

“I miss that house.”

You hum your agreement, nodding a few times. “Yeah.”

“She’s not still,” Emily trails off, eyeing you carefully over the rim of her coffee mug.

“In Bristol? Not for ages.”

“Right.” Emily’s eyes fall back to the table. “I just assumed since we hadn’t – well, it’s unlikely in any case, but I often thought we’d have bumped into one another. If you’d have, you know, been back for a visit.”

It’s still an adjustment, being privy to information from Emily’s past. A time in her life you’d always assumed included no part of you. So you can’t respond beyond an uncertain smile once you’ve learned that none of that is actually true. Emily did think of you, considered your whereabouts. Imagined what it might be like to see you again.

“I saw her once.” Emily’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and you look over to see she’s been watching you.

“My mum?” Emily nods, and your eyes return to your mug of coffee. “She never said.”

“It was fairly uneventful, I suppose. And she didn’t mention you, which I always suspected meant you’d asked her to keep schtum.” She says it a little sadly, then catches your eye before asking, “Did you?”

All of the air in your flat feels like it’s thickening around you, making it hard to enjoy your morning coffee or these finals hours with Emily. And so you slice through it with your sharp sarcasm, in hopes Emily will be grateful for the change in atmosphere.

“You don’t seriously think a woman as headstrong as my mum would bend to the wishes of her petulant offspring, do you?”

It doesn’t look like she believes you, but Emily smiles just the same and seems to relinquish her attempts at dredging up the past.

 

“Will you be seeing her then – your mum – for Christmas?”

“Mum’s fucked off to New Delhi, actually,” you tell her. “She claims it’s about enlightenment, but I’ve got a suspicion there’s a bloke somewhere in that equation.”

“Right.” Emily’s smile is kind of forced, but then the crease in her brow is quickly followed by her teeth finding that top lip. “So then, I mean, I guess you’ll just—“

She doesn’t want to say, _‘you’ll spend it alone because you’ve got fuck-all for family other than your mum.’_

Even though, her apprehension is implying as much. And it’s sweet, her still trying to spare your feelings on the topic of familial units, as if it’s still a sensitivity you’d even recognise. As if that part of you hasn’t gone calloused years ago, long before Emily and her nuclear representation of mum, dad, brother, twin showed up.

“Well, I was _meant_ to spend the holiday with Effy.”

You let it linger there, your thought, because to finish it would be to say something mordant about killing Effy the moment you see her [though, Emily might not see the humour in it]. But also, because being with Effy is admitting you’ll be in London, a trip you’d originally planned to make without Emily being clued in.

“Oh,” Emily says with a few, quick nods, trying desperately not to let her expectations show; though her eyes – even when not cast in your direction – give her away every time. “Well, that’ll be nice. I mean, not having to spend it by yourself.”

“I may end up by myself should I find Effy’s bloody, satisfactory smirking to be grounds for murder.”

Emily winces slightly, but ends up laughing a bit anyway when she says, “You’ll not be too hard on her?”

With a swirl of your coffee mug, now practically empty, you tell her, “I’ll reconsider the manslaughter, but I’m returning all of her gifts.”

Emily laughs harder while you begrudgingly smile into your coffee cup, and the quiet that follows isn’t at all unsettling. 


End file.
